Staged
by el.verano
Summary: One high school. Eight seniors: a famous musician, a popular girl with dark secrets, a competitive swimmer about to make it big, an aspiring musician, a guy who's afraid to love, a girl who's internally collapsing, the guy who's about to fail, and a concerned best friend who's facing problems of her own. One explosive year. Full Summary Inside IS PS CS ORS
1. The Prologue

**The Summary:**

Belleview Heights is hardly a remarkable town. It's large enough to appear on most local maps, but small enough that it's practically unknown to all but the residents and the residents of neighboring towns. This year, however, is going to be anything but unremarkable. Eight high school seniors with their own problems, stories, secrets, and struggles come together, and only one thing is certain: this is going to be an explosive year.

**The Characters:**

**Paul** is a famous musician. He's sold countless records, and won more awards than anyone could ever need, but to him, the money and fame are merely annoyances. They are simply downsides to sharing music with those who really need it. Through his dark and tragic childhood, music became his only solace, and he knows better than anyone what music can to do during bad times. Now, music has become his life, and he's become an extremely dedicated musician. As his fame and popularity steadily grow, so does his desire to escape it all. That's how he finds himself in a small town, with the plan to finish high school in a public school, after a year of private tutoring. But after being in the world of his own music for a year, the sudden return back to the real world reveals the same darkness he tried to escape.

**Dawn** is often described as cheerful, girly, and bubbly, or as shallow, annoying, and too talkative, depending on who you ask. She's pretty, popular, and has a wardrobe full of designer clothes. She loves famous musician Paul Shinji and his music, but while she seems like an airhead mindlessly following whatever's trending and popular at the time, her reasons for loving Paul Shinji's music are far from that. Because beneath her masterfully crafted facade of a perfect life is a pile of deep, dark secrets. She's doing everything she can to hide them, but she's not sure how much longer she can last. Especially with the police closing in.

**Gary** is in big trouble. Last year, he didn't pay much attention in school. Which in itself wasn't a big deal, because Gary had a bunch of other things going on his life last year, so his grandfather understands and is fine with it. Unfortunately, his teachers aren't so understanding, so he finds himself with almost-failing grades. While he scraped through by the skin of his teeth, thanks to a ton of luck on multiple choice exams, this year, he doesn't know what he's doing because he didn't pay attention last year. With the fear of actually failing this year staring him in the face, he finds hope in actually passing in the form of Leaf Greene, an old friend who offers to tutor him. Soon, however, he discovers that Leaf might need his help more than he needs hers.

**Misty** is about to have twelve years of athletic pay off. She's a committed competitive swimmer who has recently been winning plenty of regional swim competitions, and, as a result, has received what she has always dreamed of: an invitation to compete in the World International Swimming Championships. As she prepares for her chance to truly shine, she realizes that she has another dream, one that is much more personal. And only one can come true.

**Drew** is confused. He know that he likes May. A lot. But after being scarred from a past relationship, he's not sure if he's ready for more romance, now or ever. That's not his only problem. May also seems oddly distant. Drew doesn't know why, but it's just making him more and more confused. He doesn't know what to do. He needs to do something, however, before it's too late.

**Leaf** is scared. Right now, her mind is a terrifying place, and it scares even herself. Checking her email isn't helping, either. She slowly starts moving towards darker thoughts, and all her efforts to distract herself are in vain. She's powerless against her own mind. She tries to internalize everything to prevent bothering anyone, but she may just destroy herself in the process.

**Ash** is an aspiring musician. He may be goofy and slightly immature at times, but there is one thing that he's serious about: music. He dreams of going far in the industry, like his musical idol, Paul Shinji, but his single mother is struggling to make enough money for the both of them, so Ash does all he can to help, shoving his passion for music into a backseat. Finally, he has a chance to get a golden ticket straight into the industry, but his chance is slipping away. Quickly.


	2. Paul - Everything We Are

**The lyrics used in this story are original lyrics that I wrote myself. They won't be at a professional level.  
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* * *

><p><em>Is this everything we ever will be?<em>

_Is this everything we are?_

My first thought when I enter the house is that it was way too bright. My second thought is that it was way too big.

The walls of the house Reggie chose are more window than wall, and are covered in nothing but gauzy white curtains that block almost no light.

The house is also way too big. It would be too big for a family of four, let alone just me. It has four bedrooms, four bathrooms, and three floors and a basement. It's also designed to look bigger than it is. The ceiling in the living room is vaulted and goes all the way to the roof. The other floors wrap around the living room, making the space feel open, bright, and big.

Ha. As if it's not already too bright and too big.

It's the smallest house in this neighborhood of big, fancy, houses, apparently. It was also the most expensive house in the whole town. Perhaps that's why Reggie chose this house. Money stopped being an issue about ten months ago. How ironic.

If it was anyone else, I would have violently protested. I hate large amounts of light the same way most hate the dark. I also hate fancy, big houses. But I owed Reggie way too much, so I didn't protest too much.

After examining the house, I go out to collect my boxes, which were brought over by a moving company an hour ago.

As I pick up the first box, a boy with green hair who appears to be close to my age walks by. He's walking a small brown dog and wearing headphones.

He stops in front of my house, probably because of the collection of boxes littering my driveway.

He takes off his headphones.

"Hey, did you just move in?" he asks.

I immediately dislike him. Who randomly stops to talk to strangers and asks them if they've just moved in?

I snatch up some smaller boxes and pile them on top of the box I'm holding before turning and going back inside, pointedly ignoring the irritating stranger standing in front of my driveway.

"Ok. That's not rude at all," he mutters, before putting his headphones back on and entering the house beside mine.

Ah. So he's my next door neighbor. Lovely.

Coming back to public school will be strange after the past year. I was so busy writing and recording songs, working on contracts, and dealing with media outlets to have time for public school, so I was privately tutored by a licensed educator.

This year, I'm focusing less on my career. Maybe that way, my manager might finally take a hint and stop trying to shove interviews, endorsement offers, collaborations, and tours on me.

Still, I'm starting to regret my choice. Rejecting interviews, endorsements, and other stupid offers, although bothersome, is probably easier and infinitely less painful than having to socially associate with the foreign species that is the high school student, which I will subject to starting tomorrow, the first day of this school year. The green haired idiot serves as the perfect example of why associating with high school students is so painful.

At the same time, though, I crave the normality of just being a normal high school student, which is ironic, because I've never just been a normal high school student. Even before I became famous, I was anything but normal, in perhaps one of the worst possible ways.

It's been a long time since I've really felt anything, but right now, I'm feeling a little excited, because tomorrow, I'll feel the abnormal feeling of normality.

* * *

><p>Belleview Heights Secondary School is amazing in that it's completely lackluster. It manages to be neither clean, shiny, and new, or old, rundown, and broken. The once-red roof is now a faded brownish pink, the flower beds in front of the school are surrounded in cracked bricks and filled with small, slightly drooping flowers, and the letters on a sign with the school's name are slightly chipped, with the second H in "Heights" missing.<p>

Students mill around the doors and in the entry aimlessly.

I'm half and hour early, but the halls already seem crowded. It's likely a side effect of this high school being the only one in town, and being below average in size.

Through the glass panels in the main doors, I can see the office. It would be hard not to; "School Office" is written in big, black letters on the door,

That's where I'm supposed to go. Apparently, I need to pick up an orientation package.

I manage to slip through the crowd and get to the office quickly.

A secretary behind a large desk directs me to a side room, where a man is sitting at a desk.

"Hello. You're a new student, right?" he asks.

"Yes," I say.

"What's your name?" he asks, turning to his computer.

"Paul Black."

My birth name sounds foreign now, after going by my stage name, Paul Shinji, for the past year.

He types my name into the computer, clicks a few buttons, and the printer comes to life, spitting out a small pile of paper.

He picks them all up, staples them, and then slides them towards me.

"Nice to meet you, Paul. I'm Mr. Blakeway. I'm here to make sure all our new students get settled in, so if you have any questions, feel free to ask me," he says.

I thank him, and exit the office.

I examine my time table. All my academic classes are advanced placement, which is a testament to how effective private education can be.

Apparently, many elective classes were too full, so not everyone got into the electives they wanted.

I scan my timetable. Out of my four first choice electives, which were French, Spanish, psychology and business, I got none of them. How nice.

Instead, I was stuck with foods, drama, art, and music. Music. How lovely. As if I need to take a class to learn about that.

It's kind of sickening. Everywhere around me, friends are reuniting after three months of being apart. They're hugging each other, exchanging gifts and souvenirs, and saying things like, "I missed you so much!", "I love you so much, girl!" and "It wasn't the same without my bestie!"

Don't they realize that in two or three years, after we've all gone our own ways to colleges, universities, and careers, they probably will barely remember each other? And even if by some miracle, they manage to keep in touch, some day, death will part them? And all of that's considering that they're reasonable enough to not let selfishness, stupidity, or emotion tear them apart before they finish high school.

I never believed in friends. At least, friends like this, when there was nothing significant holding them together. I have three friends. One of them is my brother, and all three of them have saved my life in some way. I know them all like I know myself, and they probably know me better than I know myself. That's the sort of friendship that means something, not some person you barely know beyond whatever shallow conversations you have and that you meaninglessly say "I love you" to. I've always hated it when "friends" say I love you to each other. It destroys the significance of significant words, in a way that seems as sacrilegious as translating a holy book into text speak.

Maybe normality isn't a good thing, but so far, it's not bad. Not worse than the abnormality I've faced, anyhow, but that means barely anything.

* * *

><p>I have a very deep hate for gym class. Not because I'm bad at it, or because I disagree with physical activity, but because it's pointless. Most of the time, it's just an hour wasted on sending projectiles at each other. It epitomizes an exercise in futility. There are plenty of better ways to exercise, like running and martial arts, which both have some sort of importance. But really, what does smacking stuff at people teach you? Nothing good.<p>

Furthermore, only about half the class really does anything in gym. The other half spends gym texting, talking to friends, standing around, and attempting to conceal their lack of effort.

I'm also decent at gym. Being athletic, or at least being able to defend yourself and to run quickly, were essential skills where I grew up. I'm well versed in... contemporary martial arts. After I started earning a decent income, I trained in more traditional martial arts as well. Often times, it's hard to find a partner or team who can keep up with me. I hate having to work with people who can't keep up with me, because no matter what they say about teams, I know better than anyone that life is mainly a battle royale.

"Because today is our first day, we'll start with something easy," my gym teacher, Mrs. Coghart, announces, "I'll put everyone in random partners, and we'll play a badminton doubles tournament. Each team is going to find another team to play against, and we'll play for five minutes. After, the winning team will find another team to play against, and the losing team will be eliminated. We'll keep going until one team wins."

The phrase "random partners" makes me internally groan. When things happen arbitrarily, things go wrong. That's how it's always been. And it likely wouldn't change this time. With my luck, I'd get paired with some airhead who couldn't hit the birdie for their life.

My luck has apparently taken a turn for the better, because I get put with Gary, a guy with spiky, auburn hair who can actually play.

We win the tournament easily. Admittedly, the exercise in futility that is gym class is marginally better when you get a decent partner.

"Wow man, you can really play," Gary tells me at the end of the block.

"Thanks. You're not so bad yourself," I say, pulling out my schedule to check what course I have after lunch, which is next.

"Whoa, you're taking all advanced placement courses?" he asks, looking at my schedule with me, "I'm only taking basic courses because I still have some grade 11 stuff to finish."

Gary isn't completely awful, which is why I don't protest too much when he insists on joining me for lunch.

"My friends are distracting, and I really need to do some work," he admits, "Also, you seem really smart, so I was hoping you could help me a little."

In the end, I agree to help him. We look at functions together.

"You're a good teacher. It's too bad I already have a tutor," Gary says near the end of lunch, "Her name's Leaf, and she's an old friend of mine. Actually, she's sitting over there."

He points to a table across the cafeteria. Four girls are sitting there, giggling and talking discourteously loudly. There are two brunettes, a redhead, and, strangely enough, a girl with dark blue hair. A strange choice of color, but I can't say much. My hair is currently purple. I have a good reason, though. I'm trying to go unnoticed, so I dyed my normally-black hair a strange color to draw attention away from my face, to avoid being recognized.

"She's wearing the green shirt," he explains.

The four girls are seriously annoying me, even from a distance. They're acting like a typical, mindless gaggle of popular girls.

My distaste for them deepens exponentially when one of them, the blue haired girl, pulls a CD out of her handbag.

It's a very familiar CD. It is a simple white background, with a shattered glass vase. "What They Say" is printed on in all capitals. The font is simple, neat, and black.

It's one of my CDs.

* * *

><p>Last block comes quickly. Despite it being the first day, I've been assigned plenty of homework. Aside from gym, all three of the other classes I've attended so far - AP Physics, AP Chemistry, and AP History - have all left me with substantial amounts of homework. Luckily, it's all very easy, because I know all the concepts already. Another testament to the virtues of private education.<p>

My last class is AP English, which is one of my best subjects. I've always liked writing, even before I developed a multi-million dollar career from my writing.

My English teacher, Mr. Connolly, is similar to Mrs. Coghart in that he likes to put us in random pairs for projects.

He demonstrates that by announcing that an important part of learning is understanding why we learn, so we'd be put in pairs, and had to write an essay about why we learn English, to be handed in tomorrow.

Like in gym, I hate partner projects, because I'm, in Reggie's words, "a pedantic overachiever and perfectionist who unreasonably refuses anything short of perfection". Personally, I prefer to say that I'm dedicated and ambitious.

I get paired up with "Drew Hayden".

"Hey partner," Drew says behind me. I turn around to see who my partner is.

Officially, normality sucks. Drew Hayden turns out to be a code name for the annoying green haired idiot who doesn't understand the concept of "don't talk to strangers". Ha. Look who's talking. I'm being a major hypocrite.

"Oh. It's you," he says dismissively. He pulls in a pair of green ear buds, which discreetly blend in with his green hair, preventing Mr. Connolly, who's still calling out partners, from noticing what he's doing..

The funny thing is that he goes from ignoring me straight to listening to my voice blasted straight into his ears through mini green speakers. I see him select "Everything We Are" off his phone's music library.

After Mr. Connolly finishes calling out the partners, he gives us time to work. Drew sighs and grudgingly takes out his earbuds.

"If we don't want to fail, I guess we're going to have to be civil to each other," he admits reluctantly.

He makes a good point.

"Fine," I reply curtly.

"It's a good thing we're next door neighbors; we can work on this after school," Drew points out, "I'm free all afternoon, so if you're free too, who's house do you want to work at, and when?"

"We can work at my house. How does 4:30 sound?" I ask, trying to be diplomatic.

"That's fine," he agrees.

For the rest of the block, we individually brainstorm, which is our covert way of ignoring each other.

* * *

><p>I have work to do before Drew gets here. I've already unpacked a few things, and among them are some rather incriminating pieces of evidence. There's a couple pictures in small frames of Reggie, my two other friends, and me. In these pictures, I look identical to how I look on stage, with my hair its natural color and my eyes green, instead of the grey color they are now, thanks to tinted contact lenses.<p>

Dying and trimming my hair, using a little bit of stage make up, and wearing contact lenses have somehow made me look like a different person. If you look closely, you can still see a slight resemblance, but nothing striking enough to recognize me.

I slide the generic sample pictures of sunflowers that came in the frames in front of my pictures. I move my hair dye and make up off the bathroom counter.

In the office that has become my studio, I've already unpacked some recording equipment, so I put it back in the boxes, except for my guitar and a single microphone on a stand. My book of all the songs I've written is gracefully crammed behind the dishwasher, and some contract papers are stashed inside a box of random trinkets Reggie insisted that I bring. I don't get why; they're all gimmicky pieces of junk with little use other than to take up space. Among them are a fish shaped cutting board and a toaster with flashing lights that looks like a really cheap prop from a really cheap sci-fi movie.

By the time the doorbell rings, it is nearly impossible to tell that a famous musician lives in this house.

Drew arrives at exactly 4:30, which, I have to admit, displays impressive punctuality.

"Wow. I forgot how big the houses on this street look when they're new and empty," he remarks, looking around.

"Yeah, that was one of the first things I noticed too. It's way too big for two people, but my brother chose it," I say. None of it's a lie, but it's more than a little misguiding. My brother won't be living with me here, except, perhaps, for the occasional visit. He knows that I need a little time alone to find myself again.

"You live with just your brother? What about your parents?" he asks.

"Yeah, my brother is thirteen years older than me. Both my parents died when I was six. Our house burned down," I say, my voice distant and apathetic, as if pretending that their strange death doesn't haunt me to this day might make me believe it. It doesn't work.

"Um, let's work on the essay," Drew suggests, looking slightly uneasy.

He pulls out his laptop, and opens up a document full of his notes.

"So, here's what I have. I think we learn English so that we can communicate with each other, and because it's an important skill to have when we grow up, and in post secondary education," he says.

How trite.

"Why do we need to learn English like this though? Does being able to define iambic pentameter and being able to identify a gerund really help us communicate? And what if one didn't go to post secondary education? Is learning all this English?" I point out.

"Well, um," he stammers a little. "Can you do any better?" he asks, irritated.

"I think we learn English people don't want the language to change. In the past, English has evolved so much; the vocabulary is completely different, and the grammar has changed majorly. They're scared that without hammering in lessons with fancy grammatical terms and very specific conventions, we'll evolve the language too. It will change into something completely different, and unless they keep up, it will leave them behind. People don't like change, but they do like to communicate. They want the English that we communicate in to be the same English they learned and they know. That's why we don't learn about text speak and slang in English, even though that's arguably more useful these days."

"Okay, that's pretty good, and actually really true," Drew admits, "But that's basically a critic of our education system. I don't think Mr. Connolly will like it much."

What a stupid sentiment.

"And so what? So what if he doesn't like it?" I ask, slightly annoyed.

"He might fail us," Drew explains.

That's his concern? Really? Well, easy for me to say. I don't need good marks to get into a good university; I already have a decent career.

"And so what if he fails us? I'd much rather fail on something I truly stand by than do well on complete lies," I snap back.

He shrugs. "Fine, whatever. If we fail, though, then-" he starts, but I cut him off.

"Then I'll take full responsibility," I finish.

"Deal," he agrees.

We draft our points and paragraph, and then write the essay. The essay we end with isn't bad, even though Drew's writing is inferior to mine.

Drew's opinion is much more positive.

"This is great. We might get a good mark after all," he says.

"It's acceptable," I mutter noncommittally, but Drew doesn't hear. He's walked into my office/studio.

"You play guitar?" he asks.

"A little. I sing a little too," I say. A blatant lie. There's nothing little about my singing and guitar playing, unless having multiple triple platinum records and winning eight major music awards in one year counts as little.

"Cool. My friend Ash does too," he says, inspecting my studio. He picks up a folder of sheet music off my music stand, and I realize too late that I forgot to hide something.

"Paul Shinji? You have good taste," he notes, pulling out the score for "Everything We Are".

"Play for me," he requests, handing me the score.

"No," I reply, putting the sheet music back on the stand.

"Fine. I'll play it. You asked for it," he warns, taking my guitar of the guitar stand. Before I can protest, he starts strumming random notes and glissandos, and wailing out the lyrics in an extremely obnoxious way.

_I know they said that we control our own fates_

_But I don't think that I have what it takes_

_Are we stuck like this?_

_Can we not change?_

_Is this everything we ever will be?_

_Is this everything we are?_

The only resemblance this mess has to my song is that it coincidentally has the same lyrics. It's extremely painful to listen to. I snatch my guitar back, and set it back on its stand. I take the sheet music too, smacking him on the head with it for good measure.

"You," I say, "are awful at playing guitar, and your singing is just as bad. Kindly never repeat that performance again."

"Harsh," he says, but he's laughing. I laugh a little too, because I never thought that my work could sound like _that_.

"You're a fan of Paul Shinji too?" he asks.

"No, I just have the sheet music," I say. Technically, it's true. I'm not a fan of myself. Knowing what I do about my past, it's hard to think anyone would be a fan of me.

"You should actually listen to his music. It's really good. Ash showed his music to me, actually," Drew says, pulling out his phone to play "Everything We Are".

It's strange. The voice is familiar, the words are familiar, and the guitar accompaniment is familiar, and yet it sounds foreign coming from Drew's phone.

For the chorus, Drew takes my guitar off the stand and joins in.

He sounds better when he isn't purposely trying to sound obnoxious, but only slightly. Also, his guitar playing still sucks.

"Any career that involves singing, guitar playing, or any form of music is officially out of the running for you," I remark as the song ends, taking my guitar back.

"Good thing that music was out of the running to begin with. My dad's forcing me into business," he says cheerily. He picks up the sheet music folder and takes out "Perpetual Pain". He reclaims my guitar, and treats me to another amazing performance.

_We're trapped in a vicious cycle_

_Of hurt and hate and perpetual pain_

_And I just want to break away_

_But I'm trapped in my own mind_

_I've blocked off my own escape_

At the hands of Drew, lyrics that were once so personal and meaningful have become noise that isn't even worthy of being called music.

"Stick with business," I tell him, taking back my guitar. I laugh a little, because he's so ridiculously bad.

"There goes my dream," he says in mock dejection, "But you're actually not that bad."

"You're not bad either," I reply.


	3. Ash - Every Moment

_Time is golden, I have to agree_

_At least, time's a golden blade, already plunged in hilt deep_

_And every moment just cuts deeper into the wound_

_And every moment, just reiterates that it'll all be over soon_

I haven't had much time to write songs in the past two weeks, because a huge catering order had come in at my mom's bakery, and I'd been baking tart shells, macarons, and choux pastry almost non-stop. That's fine, though. They paid a lot.

For the first time in weeks, I pull out my song writing notebook, and pull out my guitar. It's bright yellow, and extremely beat up, but I got it from a garage sale for fifteen dollars, so I guess you get what you pay for.

I turn on Paul Shinji's Every Moment for inspiration first. He's what I want to be, where I hope music can take me. The lyrics sound like a beautiful poem, albeit a very dark one.

Of course, I'm not going to be writing anything like what he writes. He made it big because he was unique, and he's unique because he's impossible to imitate.

I normally write upbeat, pop, love songs, because statistically, that's what's popular.

I turn off Every Moment, then stand and reach to pick up my guitar. In one fluid motion, I somehow manage to hit myself in the face with the headstock and flick a handful of guitar picks that were on the table beside the guitar all over the room.

"Ouch."

I only pick up the one guitar pick I'm going to use, resolving to clean up the others eventually.

I look at the guitar/murder weapon, glaring at it for a good ten seconds, before swinging the strap over my shoulder, hitting my stomach in the process.

Deciding to work on the chorus first, I strum chords until I find a melody I like, and then reach for my notebook.

_Windy gusts make the leaves fly_

_And an open starry sky spreads far and wide_

_The full moon is an enchanting sight_

_Yes, tonight is a beautiful night_

_But I can only look at you_

_Because you even outshine the moon_

_Until the sun rises and the magic fades_

_Let's dance this night away_

Not bad, I decide.

I'm working on the first verse when my mother comes in.

"Ash, why are there guitar picks littering the floor?" she asks, unimpressed.

Eventually apparently wasn't good enough.

I blurt out the first thing I can think of and point to my guitar accusingly.

"He did it!" I claim.

I don't think I was very convincing. My mother breaks into laughter.

After she calms down, she says, "Be gender neutral, Ash. If that guitar is even sentient, it's just as likely to be a female. By the way, I need your help. We need 200 mini quiches for tomorrow morning."

I put down my song notebook and follow my mother to the kitchen. I'm not even upset that my rare chance to work on my songs was disturbed. I've gotten used to it.

* * *

><p>Music class has always been my favorite. It's a fun class. It's a mixture of theory and practical components. We learn a lot of music theory, as well as some history and composition skills. For the practical component, we learn to play the guitar, do voice lessons, and do practical tests on scales, chords, and pieces. We also go on field trips to see the part music plays in the world, and we work with other instruments too. We also compose some songs. I'm good at it, and there's very little homework. Also, Mrs. Durnes gives us candy. That's always a plus.<p>

I'm excited as I walk into the music room with my friend Drew. The music room is my favorite classroom. At the front is a stage. The backstage area of the stage serves as our drama classroom.

In front of the stage is the music classroom. It's shaped like a semi-circle There's a small orchestra pit in center, and then three tiered platforms that curve around the room like a set of giant stairs. Chairs are spaced neatly along the three steps. There's a long shelf that runs along the curved, back wall. Guitars in black gig bags fill the shelf. Most people use the school guitars, because they're pretty good guitars. They're better than my bright yellow guitar, anyway. Others use their own guitars. There's a few doors to back rooms at either end of the shelf. One room is for people to store their own guitars in.

There are a few people sitting in chairs already. Mrs. Durnes stands in the orchestra pit.

"Everyone grab a guitar from the shelf when you come in, unless you brought your own guitar," she announces as we walk in.

Drew walks towards a guy sitting on the lowest step. He has purple hair, which is unusual, but I've known Drew for two years, and green hair's a lot weirder.

The guy with purple hair has his own guitar. I can tell because he has an actual guitar case by his feet, instead of a gig bag. The guitar case is glossy and jet black, like a well-polished grand piano. There's a very large and indiscreet, sturdy looking silver lock on the case. Wow. Someone has obvious trust issues.

"Hey Paul," Drew says, sitting down beside him, "Have you handed in our essay yet?"

"Yeah, I gave it to Mr. Connolly before coming here," the purple haired guy, apparently Paul, replies.

"Ash, this is Paul. Paul, this is Ash," Drew says unceremoniously.

"Nice to meet you," I say brightly. Paul stares at me critically.

"I'd say the same, but I think honesty is the best policy," he says, turning back to his guitar.

It takes me a few seconds to realize that he just said something mean.

"That's... not very nice!" I say.

"That's a pathetic reply," he says, still looking at his guitar.

"Ugh. Meanie," I mutter.

"Hello, class!" Mrs. Durnes says, interrupting my very important conversation with Paul, "For those of you who haven't taken music before, here's how the class works. This class has practical, creative, and theory elements. We're going to do guitar and voice lessons, and you'll have little tests on guitar pieces or scales and whatever. We're also going to learn some music theory, some music history, and some composition skills. We'll work with some other instruments, compose some pieces, and we'll go on field trips to understand the part music plays in our world. Speaking of, our first field trip will be next Wednesday, 8 days from now. We'll leave as soon as school ends at 3:30, and we'll each take a guitar and drive down to New Crompton. There, we'll split into three groups, each guided by a teacher. Each group will walk to a subway station, and then we'll split into partners, find a spot in the station, and busk for an hour, for the purpose of gaining real world musical experience. At the end of the hour, we'll meet up at a restaurant and have dinner. There, we'll see how much everyone made, so you can experience what it's like for street musicians, and discover how the public values music. Then, I'll give some special prizes and bonus marks to the three pairs that make the most. Each pair will donate half the money they make to a charity we'll decide on as a class, and they get to keep the other half. The field trip, like all field trips, is not mandatory, but does count for marks, so if you don't come, you will have an alternate assignment. However, I highly recommend that you come. The cost is $7.50, which covers your dinner. You'll need to get your parents to go online and sign the form by Monday."

"That sounds exciting," I whisper to Drew. He shrugs. He isn't nearly as into music as me; he just wants the easy marks.

"Today, we'll do guitar and voice assessments, so I can see what level all of you are at," Mrs. Durnes continue, "I'll call you to a back room in groups of three. Please bring your guitars."

Mrs. Durnes calls out three of my classmates, and then takes them into one of the back rooms. She does this every year, and I know what to expect. I practice some chords on my guitar while I wait.

"Drew, Ash, and Paul," Mrs. Durnes calls, poking her head out of the back room.

The three of us go into the small room. There are four chairs in the room at a table, three on one side, and one on the other, facing the three. Mrs. Durnes sits in the chair that faces the others.

"Hello, boys. Please sit," she says, gesturing to the chairs.

She turns to me first. "Ash, what level of experience do you have with playing guitar," she asks, smiling a little, because she knows my ability pretty well, as this is her third year of teaching me music.

"I know all the basic skills and techniques, I can compose, and I can play pretty well. I've played for about eight years," I say. She writes something down in a notebook.

"Okay, can you play this?" she says, sliding me a sheet with chords written on it. I play it easily.

"Great. Now, I'm going to have you play something for me that shows me what level you're at, in terms of skill and technique. It can be an original piece, or it can be an already written song. I'll give you a moment to choose," she says.

She then turns to Drew, and asks him what level of experience he's at.

"This is my second year playing. I started last year, when I started taking this course. I know the basics, but I'm not that good," Drew says. She offers him a sheet of paper with chords on it, and he plays them, albeit with a little hesitation.

"Now, I'll get you to play something of your choice too. I'll give you a minute to choose," she says.

She moves onto Paul, and I turn slightly so I can watch this. Hopefully, the meanie will fail and embarrass himself.

"What's you level of experience with guitar playing?" she asks.

He hesitates, obviously struggling to find the best way to describe it. Ha! You can't make being brand new sound good, no matter how you try.

However, when he starts talking, it's obvious he's trying to downplay something.

"I've only played for a few years," he starts slowly, "I compose a little too."

"Okay. And how many years have you played?"

"Ten," he responds, no longer trying to beat around the bush. Mrs. Durnes looks a little surprised. Most people wouldn't call ten years a only few years, nor would they try to sound like they were less experienced than they were. Hm. Maybe Paul is really bad, and ten years of practice hasn't helped much. He's probably embarrassed.

"Okay. Play these chords for me," she says, offering him some chords to play too.

He lifts his guitar up, which has been sitting on his lap and out of view the whole time. It's a really nice guitar; it's a darker wood than most guitars, and extremely polished. It looks very classical, almost more like a violin or viola than a guitar.

He plays the chords with ease. The apathetic expression on his face makes it obvious how easy he thinks this is.

"Good. Now, I'll give you some time to decide what you want to play," Mrs. Durnes says before turning back to me. "Okay, Ash, have you decided?"

"Yes. I'm going to play "Every Moment" by Paul Shinji," I say, as if it wasn't obvious. It's one of my favorite songs, and it sounds really nice on guitar.

"Ah. This particular piece seems popular in this class," she says, smiling, "as well as some of his other works. Go ahead."

I play about thirty seconds of the familiar melody before she stops me. It's a very nice song on guitar, and has complexity to it. It takes some skill to play it, and sounds extremely impressive.

"Very good, Ash!" she says, applauding, "Now, Drew? What have you decided on?"

Drew chooses a much easier song, a pop song by Amelia Queen with a stupidly simple melody.

Drew's playing isn't that bad, though. Paul looks surprised. When Drew finishes his thirty seconds, Paul raises an eyebrow at him, and quietly mutters, "That wasn't nearly as obnoxious as yesterday! Why couldn't you have saved my ears?"

Drew chuckles softly, and mutters something back.

"Very nice, Drew. Now, Paul?" she says, and I turn to watch Paul once more.

"I'm playing an original piece," he says curtly, before starting to play.

He's amazing. His fingers move with such agility that they look like they're dancing. The guitar's sound is great, but Paul could probably sound amazing on even my broken, bright yellow guitar. The song he plays is emotional and complex, sweet with longing, melancholy notes. He's not nearly as good as Paul Shinji, but he's perhaps the second best guitarist I've heard.

Mrs. Durnes seems to share the sentiment. Her eyes are closed, and she's swaying slightly to the music. She doesn't stop him at thirty seconds like she does with everyone else. She's too invested in the music at this point.

He finishes the song on an unsatisfying, sorrowful note. It makes the song seem more beautiful. It's a technique Paul Shinji often uses.

"That was lovely!" Mrs. Darnes says effusively, "That was completely amazing!"

Drew looks surprised, just like Paul did when Drew finished playing.

"Why didn't you play like that yesterday? I completely underestimated you!" Drew mutters.

Mrs. Darnes finishes writing something in her notebook.

"Next, I want to see how you fare at singing. Ash, please sing this," she says, sliding a score to me. It's the alto part of a well-known choral piece. I look carefully at the notes before I start singing it.

"That's nice. Now, I'll get you to sing something of your choosing. Again, I'll give you some time to choose."

She moves onto Drew and Paul. Drew's decent, and Paul's pitch perfect.

"Okay, what will you sing?" she asks.

I smile a little sheepishly. "The same song I played."

She laughs. "Go ahead," she says.

I sing the very familiar lyrics.

_Time is golden, I'd have to agree_

_At least, time's a golden blade, already plunged in hilt deep_

_And every moment just cuts deeper into the wound_

_And every moment, just reiterates that it'll all be over soon_

_Oh, every moment_

_Every moment just hurts more_

"Good," she comments, before moving on to Drew. Drew sings a classic song from a musical, because it's easy and hard to mess up.

Finally, she moves onto Paul, who sings another original piece.

_The confines of iambic pentameter are suffocating_

_It makes us feel we need to be perfectly organized to be poetry_

_Even the simplicity of a poem like a haiku_

_Makes us feel like we have to be beautiful and natural_

_To be worth poetry_

_Can't we just believe_

_That we've all got a little bit of poetry_

_That inside, we're all a little bit of poetry_

"That's a beautiful song," Mrs. Durnes remarks, "And you have a nice voice."

She finishes writing down some comments, and then lets us leave.

"You're really good Paul," I say diplomatically.

He ignores me.

"I didn't know you could play like that," I continue, unperturbed.

He ignores me.

"Are you going to keep ignoring me?" I shout angrily into his ear.

"Yes," he replies.

"Ha! You acknowledged my question, therefore, you weren't ignoring me!" I say triumphantly.

Paul shoots Drew an annoyed glance. Drew shrugs helplessly.

Paul's phone rings. He scowls at the caller before leaving the classroom to answer the phone.

"What's up with him?"I ask Drew.

"He's actually not that bad," Drew says.

"Very funny," I mutter, clearly not impressed.

* * *

><p>I swim, occasionally. Not competitively, of course, but sometimes, Gary and I will go to the pool and splash each other in the face. It's not really swimming, but it's fun.<p>

Gary and I walk to the swimming center after school. It's not far, and the walk only takes about five minutes.

There's five pools inside the center, plus a hot tub, sauna, and giant waterslide. There's a big leisure pool with a waterfall, waves, and some smaller waterslides, a pool for swimming lessons, a public length swimming pool, a shallow pool for kids, and another length swimming pool where competitive swimmers can book a lane to train in.

We pass by the private training pool on our way to the leisure pool. Standing at the end of one of the lanes is a red haired girl who I recognize. Her name's Misty, and she's in my grade, and one could say we're friends, but we're far from close.

Gary and I stop to say hi. She's wearing a plain black one piece and checking a waterproof watch.

"Hey Misty," Gary says.

"Oh, hi Gary. Hi Ash. I'm waiting for my trainer. We're supposed to be training for a swim competition, but she's stuck in traffic," Misty explains.

"You swim?" I ask, very tactfully.

"No Ash. She stands around in a swim suit, participates in swim competitions, and has a swim trainer, but she doesn't swim," Gary says. I can't tell if he's being sarcastic.

Misty laughs a little. "Yeah, I swim. I'm pretty competitive, and I'm trying to get into the World International Swimming Championships," she explains.

Gary looks amazed. "Really Misty? Good for you!"

"Yeah! Good for you!" I say, but then I realize, "Wait, what are the World International Swimming Championships?"

Misty and Gary both look exasperated.

"It's a basketball tournament," Gary says. Is he being sarcastic? I decide to assume that he's not.

"Really? You play basketball too? Hmm, the people who named the tournament aren't very smart. A lot of people are going to think it's a swimming competition," I point out.

Misty face palms.

"Yes, it is a swimming competition. It's the biggest swimming competition in the world," she says, sounding equal parts exasperated and irritated.

Oh. So Gary was being sarcastic.

"I've won a handful of regional swim meets, actually," Misty says, "And I might get an invitation to the nationals."

"That's great, Misty!" Gary says.

A woman walks over. "Hey Misty, sorry that I'm so late. The traffic was brutal," she says apologetically.

Misty smiles. "It's fine," she says, and then she turns to us, "Sorry, guys, I have to start training."

"It's fine. Nice talking to you Misty. Good luck with your swim competition!" Gary says.

"Bye Misty! Good luck!" I reiterate.

Is my classmate really going to participate in the world's biggest swim contest? It's impressive, to say the least. She's making something big out of her dreams. I wish I could do the same.


	4. May - In Bloom

_Yes, growing season's just begun_

_And hurt and hate, sadness and pain_

_They're all in bloom_

"How can you eat that?" I ask, examining the lumps of beef tendon floating in Misty's bowl of pho, "It looks nasty!"

"It's good! Try a piece!" she says, picking up an especially disturbing looking chunk with her chopsticks and holding it in my face.

Misty and I are having dinner in a small pho restaurant. It's sort of a tradition among the four of us - Misty, Leaf, Dawn, and I - to meet up for dinner after one of Misty's swim practices. At least, it was. Lately, Dawn's always been busy. Normally, it's just the three of us now, but Leaf has to tutor Gary today.

"No thanks," I say, ducking away from it. Misty laughs and eats it herself.

"So how was training today?" I ask.

"Great! Oh, guess what?" she asks.

"Um, you got a boyfriend?" I guess jokingly.

She looks unimpressed. "Are you saying that would be such a surprise?" she asks indignantly.

"It was just supposed to be a joke. You know, because your sisters are always on your case about getting a boyfriend?" I say defensively. She calms down a little.

"You're right. Sorry, I lost it there a little," she admits, "Anyway, just when practice was ending, I got a phone call." She pauses dramatically.

"I got invited to the nationals!" she squeals. Misty almost never squeals, so you can tell she's really happy when she does.

"That's amazing!" I say.

"I know! This is great," Misty says, laughing, "Also, I broke my previous record for front crawl today!"

"You're going to do great at the nationals," I say.

"I hope so," Misty says. She eats some more of her suspicious noodles.

I eat my pho too. Beef brisket pho is great without suspicious tendon lumps.

"We're going on a busking field trip in music next week," I say, "We're going to drive to the subway, and then busk in partners for an hour. There's prizes for the pairs that make the most. Dawn and I are totally going to win."

"Good luck with that," she says, laughing, "Busking is hardly lucrative. I read about this super famous cellist who made, like, 19 bucks from an hour of busking, then made thousands of dollars playing at a concert that evening."

"Really? Good thing it's only going to be for fun, then. It hardly seems like a stable career," I say.

Both of our phones light up from a new text in our group conversation.

It's from Dawn.

**OMG I think Paul Shinji's going to play a concert. At least, this gossip blog says so.**

There's also a link to the aformentioned blog.

"I really don't get Dawn's obsession with Paul Shinji. He's a good singer, sure, but all his songs are so depressing. Once, I found this song that I thought was going to be happier, because it was called "In Bloom" and it had a black and white picture of flowers," I tell Misty.

"And?" she asks, "How was that?"

"So I listened to it, and guess what the chorus was?" I ask.

"What?" Misty asks.

_"This bitter spring has almost sprung_

_Growing season's just begun_

_And these dark seeds of hate_

_We've planted in our brains_

_And watered with our tears_

_Have all begun to grow_

_Yes, growing season's just begun_

_And hurt and hate, sadness and pain_

_They're all in bloom_," I tell her.

"Okay, that's just depressing," she agrees.

"Anyway, I don't get what the big buzz about him is. Almost everyone sang and played his songs during assessment in guitar class today," I say, slurping up some noodles ungracefully.

Misty slurps with me.

"Drew texted me yesterday," I blurt out suddenly. Drew's my kind-of-friend. We're both sub-par guitarists, in a class full of really good guitarists. In fact, we're debatably the two worst students in music class. We're constantly competing to not be rock bottom. It's kind of funny. Most times, people compete to be the best. We compete to not be the worst. The competition's friendly, anyway. Most of the time.

Also, Drew's my maybe-crush. I'm not sure if it's a crush or not, because it's kind of unprecedented. I've had only one possibly-crush before, and it was a completely different sensation.

Misty knows. Even though I love Dawn and Leaf, Misty's my best friend, and the one who deals with all my musings, rants, and crises.

"Really? What did he say?" Misty asks, although she doesn't look very interested, but more like she's just playing a character. She doesn't really like gossiping or talking about boys, but she is a supportive friend.

"He just said we should hang out," I say. His exact text was: Hi May. Want to hang out sometime? It was so cryptic. I couldn't figure out what he meant by it. Also, he used completely proper grammar. Who does that when texting? Drew, apparently.

"So what did you say?" Misty asks, still feigning interest, although her eyes give her away.

"I just said sure," I say. It's a little pathetic. I didn't really know what to say, so I just sent back one word. Sure. Looking back, I should have at least added an exclamation point or a happy face. And now I'm obsessing over it. Just great.

Misty doesn't seem to know what to say to continue to conversation. She's not very good at this, obviously. I take pity on Misty and change the subject.

"So, the nationals, Misty! I'm so proud of you!" I gush, returning to our original topic. I really am proud of my friend.

Misty smiles. "I know. I'm still a little speechless. I mean, me at the nationals?" she says, and then laughs a little, "I'm probably going have to train much more now, though."

"Well, at least there's a bunch of restaurants I still want to try. There's this one Chinese place that makes homemade ramen that I really want to try," I respond.

Misty laughs. "That's one way of looking at it."

* * *

><p>"My raspberry rooibos iced tea is much more sophisticated than your drink that is so full of sugar, chemicals, and artificial flavor that it can't be called a latte. Lattes are supposed to taste like coffee," Drew argues.<p>

We end up hanging out a few days after he texts me, at a small café inside a local bookshop. It's a very platonic location, where some friends might hang out and do some homework. It's also a little disappointing.

"Hey! It's a caramel praline macchiato, not a latte!" I protest.

"The term macchiato makes it sound like some sort of nice, authentic coffee drink. Your drink tastes like super sweet rat poison," he claims.

"So? Like I said, how is iced tea any better? You can buy a gallon for two bucks, and it's loaded with just as much sugar and chemicals, and artificial flavor! Also, it hardly tastes like tea!" I retort.

"That's where you're wrong, May," he says, "Because this is not the iced tea you buy for two bucks a gallon. That kind of iced tea, I admit, is junk. This is rooibos iced tea, lightly sweetened and with natural raspberry flavor. It actually tastes like tea. This rooibos tea has a flavor that is very delicate, complex, and floral, that is enhanced with a little sugar and some fruit notes. Here, try some."

I take a sip of his raspberry kangaroo iced tea or whatever.

It's actually really good. As much as I hate to admit it, Drew is right for once. The iced tea tastes like actual tea, and the flavor tastes almost like perfume smells.

"Fine. Your raspberry kangaroo iced tea is halfway decent," I admit, pouting.

"Kangaroo iced tea?" he asks, laughing.

"That's what it sounds like you keep saying," I insist.

"It's rooibos, otherwise known as red tea," he tells me.

"Whatever. Rue-ee-boots. Kangaroo. Same thing," I say.

"You're hopeless," he says, shaking his head and supressing laughter.

"Well, at least I don't look like someone tried to experiment with new agricultural methods on my head," I say petulantly.

"Hey! My choice of hair color is actually very personal, meaningful, and symbolic! Also, do you have any idea how hard it is to find good quality green hair dye?" he asks.

"It still looks like a greenhouse," I insist.

"How about we agree that it looks like a meaningful and symbolic greenhouse?" he offers.

"Fine. A meaningful and symbolic greenhouse it is," I agree.

"How did your assessment go in music class?" he asks.

I was hoping he wouldn't ask. I consider lying to sound better than I am, but I end up being honest.

"I messed up my E major chord and my D minor supertonic chord. I got the key signatures wrong," I admit, "Also, I blanked out in the middle of my freestyle piece."

He smirks. "I played Amelia Queen's Love Letters. That song is relatively easy, but sounds pretty impressive. Also, I played it perfectly," he boasts.

"Well you suck," I retort cleverly, "I'll beat you at busking!"

"More like your partner might," he says laughing, "That is, if you get a good partner."

"Don't we get to choose?" I ask.

"Nope. Ash asked Mrs. Durnes, and she said it's going to be random. It's supposed to help us interact with new people or whatever," Drew says, drinking his kangaroo tea.

"How much do you think we'll make?" I ask, "Apparently, this super famous cellist made less than twenty dollars in an hour of busking, which is ironic, because he apparently made thousands at a concert that night."

"We'll see, won't we? That's what the field trip is about: gaining experience and finding out new things about the music industry," he says.

"Do you have Mr. Connolly for AP English?" I ask. Drew's not in my class, but he might be in one of Mr. Connolly's other AP English classes. At least, I think he's in AP English. I think he mentioned something about it last year.

If so, I want to rub my essay mark in his face. We were assigned an essay about why we learn English, and Leaf and I did pretty well, for Mr. Connolly, at least. He's a hard marker, and we only had one day to work on the essay. Leaf's a great writer. He's already one-upped me on music assessments. I want to beat him on this.

"Yeah. What did you get on the essay?" he asks, looking smug. Oh no. This might not be a good idea after all.

"87%," I say hesitantly.

"Really? We got 100," he says smugly.

"You suck," I say, smacking his arm, "What did you do it on? Leaf and I did it on the importance of communication, and while he claimed the writing was good, one of his comments was that this wasn't a strong enough reason. He wrote that 'knowing the difference between present progressive and present perfect tense isn't essential to communication'."

Drew laughs, for some reason. "To be honest, I originally wanted to do something like that too, but my partner said that same thing. He ended up choosing our topic. It was basically a critique of our education system, and I was scared that we'd fail. He wrote most of it, too. Here, I have a marked copy in my bag," he says, pulling out his essay.

The topic is actually really smart, and the essay is well written and professional. Mr. Connolly's comments are all complimentary, too.

He wrote that he was happy to see someone be brave and choose a topic like this, and that he strongly agreed with all the points, and that the topic was very smart and well phrased. Finally, he wrote that the essay was extremely well written, and, for perhaps the first time in his long teaching career, he had nothing bad to say.

I'm really jealous. Here I was thinking that I had a great mark, because it was the highest mark of anyone I'd asked aside from Drew, and here he is with a perfect mark and amazing comments. Normally, in our constant clashing to not be the worst, we were always pretty close. This, however, was a landslide victory for Team Drew.

Drew notices. "Don't be jealous," he says comfortingly, "Like I said, it was mainly my partner. He's a great writer and he insisted that we choose an honest topic. I probably contributed 6 sentences."

He knows exactly what to say to make me feel better, because it almost instantly quells the jealousy. I'm forced to respect him for being honest and not taking advantage of what he could turn into major points for himself.

"Who was your partner?" I ask, curious about the identity of the true writing genius.

"His name's Paul, but you probably don't know him. He moved here the day before school started," Drew explains, "But you probably saw him in music. He has purple hair."

Come to think of it, I do remember seeing a guy with purple hair in music. He was talking to Drew.

"Oh cool. What's he like?" I ask.

"Not very nice," Drew says, laughing, "At least, that's how he comes off to most people. I think it's more that he's just brutally honest. Wait, is that him?"

Drew points to a guy who's looking at some very thick, academic-looking, hardcovers in the book store section. Sure enough, he has purple hair.

Drew takes a chance and calls out, "Hey Paul!"

The guy turns, and Drew appears to recognize him, which is lucky, because it would have been awkward if it wasn't actually Paul.

Paul leaves the books on the shelf and comes over.

"Oh. It's you," he says dismissively.

"Yeah. Did you see our essay mark yet?" Drew asks, unperturbed.

"Yes, I got a marked copy of the essay in homeroom," Paul says, "See, I told you honesty was a good idea."

"Fine. You win this time," Drew says, "But really, you did a great job on the writing. I don't think Mr. Connolly has ever given 100 percent before, because he's the kind of teacher who says that there's no right or wrong in English, so it's impossible to do perfectly."

Paul just shrugs. "Numbers don't really matter. I said what needed to be said. That's all," he states plainly.

This guy already sounds like fun. Not.

"Someone else I know did their essay on communication," Paul continues, "And Mr. Connolly wrote basically the same thing that I said."

"Yeah, I know. May did the same thing. It's sort of funny," Drew says, "Oh, apparently Paul Shinji is going to play a concert soon."

Paul looks surprised. Is he a Paul Shinji fan? But that his expression meutralizes so quickly I wonder if I imagined the surprise.

"Really? That stupid guy again?" Paul says, scoffing.

"Wait, Drew," I say. I think I finally found my chance to one up Drew. "Where did you find this information? Could it be, wait, one second, let me find Dawn's text," I ask, scrolling through my texts. "Aha! This gossip blog?"

Drew's face goes red. "Ah, no. Ash told me," he stammers.

"Ha! Drew likes gossip blogs!" I announce triumphantly.

"So what?"

I turn to see who spoke.

"So what?" Paul asks again. "So Drew likes gossip blogs. Well, I like playing the guitar. What's wrong with either?"

"Um, well, gossip blogs normally have female readers and-" I start, but Paul cuts me off.

"Then you'd be the one who's wrong," he points out, "Because Drew, or hell, any male, can read gossip blogs if they want. There's nothing wrong with say, a girl reading a sports blog. There's nothing wrong with a child reading a dictionary. Same idea."

"But still, it's a girly habit!" I point out.

"That's sexist," Paul points out, "That's what I'm trying to tell you."

"But, um, uh," I stutter.

Paul looks at me expectantly.

"Why does this matter? Do you read gossip blogs too?" I blurt out. Not my finest retort by far.

Paul seems to share the sentiment. He chuckles drily.

"Why does it matter if I do?" he counters, "But for the record, I don't. I have better things to do."

"So then you just admitted that gossip blogs are a waste of time," I point out gleefully.

"I never said they weren't. I just said that if it's fine for a female to read them, it's fine for a male," he says.

"But there are cases where that doesn't apply. A male can't, for example, use a tampon," I say. Not a very good example, but it gets the point across.

"Because of physical impossibility. What we're talking about here is not physical, but mental," Paul argues.

Ugh. This guy is impossible.

"I rest my case," Paul says smugly.

"Whatever," I mutter. "How do you stand this guy?" I ask Drew.

Drew shrugs. "Magic?" he suggests.

"Who says we stand each other?" Paul points out.

"Ooh, low blow. I might have to steal your guitar again," Drew threatens.

"Please. Save all our ears. Don't do that again," Paul says, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"May here is actually atrociouser at guitar than I am," Drew says, grinning, "Last year, I onyl got the second worst mark in music class. I beat May by a whole 1 percent!"

"Atrociouser?" Paul asks, unamused.

"Yeah! It means more atrocious," Drew says, smirking.

"And this is a real word since when?" Paul asks.

"Since now," Drew responds, still looking smug.

"So could I use it like this? Surprisingly, there is something atrociouser than Drew's guitar playing: his singing," Paul asks.

"You wound me," Drew says, falling over dramatically. "Ow!" he says as he hits his head on the floor.

"I still don't get why you take music. I mean, when you actually try, you don't sound completely awful, but you don't seem very into it. Also, you got the second lowest mark in the class," Paul points out.

Drew grins widely. "Easy marks. Even though I had the second lowest mark, it was still 85%," Drew explains.

I sigh as they banter. Hanging out with Drew was actually really fun, but Drew's hardly said a word to me since Paul came. Great. Now I sound creepily obsessive. It makes sense, though. Paul and Drew seem to be actual friends, not friends/enemies like Drew and I.

"So, busking," Paul says, "I think it's a very clever field trip. I can't think of a better way to truly put us in a musician's shoes."

"Mrs. Durnes is good at planning insightful field trips. Once, she took us to see an orchestra, and then we got to talk to all the musicians after. It was really cool," Drew says.

"What else have you done?" Paul asks.

"Well, once a guy who composes music for movies came in and talked to us about that. It was pretty interesting," Drew recounts.

I remember that day. It was back in Grade 9. He was a good composer, and I wanted to be able to compose like he did. Unlike Drew, I was actually passionate about music in Grade 9, but somehow, I managed to do worse than Drew, who just took the class for easy marks. That was back in Grade 9, though. I then learned that the music industry is highly competitive and far from lucrative, and that I didn't really like music after all. Now, admittedly, I take music for the same reason as Drew.

Paul shrugs, looking far from impressed. "I didn't really want to take music to begin with," Paul tells Drew, "I didn't get to take any of the electives I chose, so I ended up with music."

Drew nods understandingly. "The same thing happened to Ash. He got stuck with foods instead of Spanish," Drew says.

"Oh god. Let's not talk about that buffoon. For our first assignment, I got stuck with him, and we had to make chocolate chip cookies, which are really simple. Turns out, they're not simple when you make them with Ash. He almost messed them up 17 times. I counted. In the end, they were edible, and we got a decent mark, but really. It was three times harder than it had to be. He put in four eggs instead of three, and I had to painstakingly scoop out as close to one egg as possible. Luckily, I caught him right after he cracked them in. If he'd already beaten them..." Paul trails off with a shudder.

I try one last time to put myself into the conversation.

"Hey Drew, how do you pronounce your kangaroo tea's name again?" I ask.

"Rooibos," he says, before turning back to Paul.

Dang. My attempt to turn that into another banter failed miserably.

"Uh, I have to go now. Bye Paul. Bye Drew," I say quietly.

Drew just nods at me. I pick up my stuff and leave the bookstore.

It's a little sad. He barely noticed me leave.

Some confusing part of me wishes that he'd have at least said goodbye, or told me that it was fun, and we should do it again.

I stare back into the cafe, where Paul and Drew are talking as if I never left.

I take a deep breath. So what?

As much as I try, though, I can't convince myself that I don't care, at least a little.


End file.
